


Tragedy and Comedy, and Some Awkward Mesh of the Two

by beanplague



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 15:32:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17748557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beanplague/pseuds/beanplague
Summary: And in response, Carrie would laugh. It was nothing tremendous—there was no gut-splitting or knee-slapping laughter or anything (Alistair rarely gets any of that from his audiences, which is quite the pity) but it’s laughter, and there’s something very good about this laughter; something whole and pure, and entirely uncommon in this walking tragedy of a man. There is something human in it.It is a pity, then, that Carrie does not laugh so often.





	Tragedy and Comedy, and Some Awkward Mesh of the Two

**Author's Note:**

> i found this in my drafts and originally planned on making it a big oneshot but i was like "this would work better as a multichapter fic" so here we are.

Alistair doesn’t know what he expects from Carrie, but he certainly doesn’t expect him to start crying the moment he’s given the opportunity.

Of course, it’s understandable. Alistair doesn’t want to seem heartless—unlike _certain_ _people_ who are witches that happen to have been raised in a swamp by a deeply suspicious old woman who happens to be named Flemeth and maybe, just _maybe_ these certain people are named Morrigan, and they’re deeply rude and obnoxious and a ton of other negative descriptors that Alistair doesn’t feel like reiterating at the moment. He’s getting off track, here.

This is the first time in a while that the Carrie has really had time to ruminate over the events of the past few days. The loss of his family, losing them near immediately, joining the Wardens. It is totally understandable that he would cry the moment they made camp. Still, Alistair is unsure of what role _he_ plays in this situation. He assumes, perhaps a bit tentatively, that he’s supposed to comfort his fellow warden.

Carrie is an ugly crier. His face flushes and his nose runs and he nervously cards his hands through his hair. He says, “I—Maker’s Breath, I can’t—” he exhales shallowly before quickly drawing in another breath. “I can’t do this,” he says.

“I, uhm,” Alistair tries, but he stumbles over his words. He should really be better at this. “You can?”

“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—” Carrie murmurs, and he tries to wipe away some of the tears on his face but it only irritates his eyes. “I’m not—not meant for this. I want to,” he hiccups, “I want to go _home,”_ he cries, like a child who has been taken to a long running Chantry service.

(Or maybe more like a grown man whose family has been assassinated.)

The sun is falling under the line of the horizon, and Carrie is sitting near the tent they have just pitched, crying his heart out, wishing for a world that is long past him. Alistair feels nothing but empathy.

“I know,” he tries, and he kneels down to be on Carrie’s level. He reaches out, placing a hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t know quite what to say, here, and as the moments pass he becomes increasingly aware of what he’s already said. _I know?_ That’s so oddly cryptic. How could he think that would help at all? Oh, Maker, he’s gone and made this whole thing awkward—but wasn’t it already awkward? Alistair tries to pick out some stand out thoughts, but he’s tugged away from his spiral by the very real situation in front of him.

Oh, yeah. Carrie has been crying.

And he still cries, but he tries to gain his composure to some scattered success. He sniffles a bit, and he wipes at his eyes again. He clears his throat loudly before attempting to speak. He says, “I’m sorry,” and his voice is cracked and raw. It’s only a little bit heartbreaking. “I didn’t mean— _Maker’s breath,_ I’m sorry,” he looks down at his feet.

“It’s okay! You didn’t do anything wrong, and—you know! The Chantry sisters always used to tell me how good it is to cry, getting all of that out, and I never listened, because why would I? but you should listen, probably! And we’ve been through a lot—and!” Alistair is trying to shuffle through all the things he could say in this situation, but Carrie looks at him with deeply tired eyes.

He says, “Thank you,” very simply, but his gaze flits about here and there, and he adds, “I’m sorry, again. I don’t—I’ve always been,” he stops, and he looks back up at Alistair, “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Alistair starts, but Carrie is starting on another set of apologies and they sort of fumble over each other for the rest of the conversation. That is, until Carrie laughs just a bit.

There are tears in the corners of his eyes. He says, “It’s all so ridiculous, isn’t it?” as he wipes one away.

Alistair looks at him curiously. “It is,” he says.

* * *

From then on, Alistair has a sort of a protective relationship with Carrie, which is fine, and wholly reasonable. It is not, as Morrigan continually implies, a product of pity, or of Alistair’s aversion to leading. It’s the product of a good friendship! A good friendship between two brothers in arms, one of whom is perhaps just a _little_ unsuited for leading.

(The other of whom is completely incapable of doing so.)

Carrie isn’t the much of a conversationalist, despite Alistair’s best efforts. But, like a good friend, Alistair takes to noticing things about him. It happens, when you spend enough time with someone.

There’s the obvious. Carrie is anxious and tearful and it becomes very clear very quickly that the incident on the first night was not isolated. Alistair does all he can to help, but he doesn’t exactly know what _all he can_ amounts to. He suspects it isn’t enough.

There are lighter things, though. Things that aren’t so hard to deal with. Carrie used to write poetry, here and there, and he used to read plenty of it—and when Alistair (only the slightest bit jokingly) asked him to recite something he snorted and brushed him off.

“Maybe one day,” he’d said, “When you aren’t taking the piss.”

And then it became a bit of a joke between them—because when _is_ ‘one day?’ Is it tomorrow? Is it next week? Carrie, this is very important. Carrie—are you smiling? No, no! I saw you smiling. You can’t take it back now.

And in response, Carrie would laugh. It was nothing tremendous—there was no gut-splitting or knee-slapping laughter or anything (Alistair rarely gets any of that from his audiences, which is quite the pity) but it’s laughter, and there’s something very good about this laughter; something whole and pure, and entirely uncommon in this walking tragedy of a man. There is something human in it.

It is a pity, then, that Carrie does not laugh so often.

* * *

Carrie has friends besides Alistair.

He and Sten aren’t exactly on bad terms, though Sten seems to regard Carrie with stiffness, and with more pity than is probably necessary. _Carrie_ isn't the one who committed murder, but Sten regards him as if he were next in line at the gallows.

Carrie and Morrigan are difficult to observe, and Alistair doesn’t know what to make of it. There isn’t any obvious animosity, such as there is between her and Alistair, but there is a sense of distance between them. That said, Carrie _tries_ to speak to her. Alistair cannot begin to imagine why.

Carrie does have another, very obvious friend, aside from Alistair. Leliana, the sister from Lothering.

They mostly have conversations out of Alistair’s earshot, but the frequency of their talks is something that calls his attention. Not for any particular reason—Alistair is just a friend, who happens to pick up on his friend’s behavior. After all, what are friends for? Alistair knew quite a few Chantry sisters, you know? Grew up around them. They were awful gossips, and it was impossible that such behavior wouldn’t rub off on young, impressionable Alistair. (Unlike their cleanliness or piety. He managed to avoid picking those up.)

Alistair asks Carrie about it over a meal in camp.

“So,” says Alistair, talking while chewing, “you and Leliana.”

“Leliana and I,” says Carrie. He eats slowly and carefully. He has the upbringing that one would usually expect of a nobleman. He’s clean (almost obsessively so) and careful and polite. He only talks _in between_ bites of his food. Alistair doesn’t mean to notice such little things, but it’s inevitable.

It makes sense that Carrie would want something with Leliana, who is kind and safe and equally polite, and only a little bit loony, and it’s a religious looniness, which isn’t out of the ordinary for Chantry sisters. Alistair says, “You two are… close?”

(Something about the suggestion feels uncertain.)

Carrie blinks. He hesitates for a second, and then he says, “I prefer men.”

“What?” Alistair speaks without thinking. It sounds more confused than anything, which is stupid. Alistair isn’t _confused,_ or, he is, but he wouldn’t want to act like he is.

“I’m not really attracted to woman,” says Carrie. He tries to carry this with some sense of casualty, but it’s clear that it’s a bit uncomfortable for him to speak of. Seeing this discomfort, ironically, makes the conversation a little easier for Alistair, for he is best suited at lifting awkwardness from a conversation. Or creating it, sometimes.

“Oh,” says Alistair, “You’ll have to forgive me, I’m blind to this kind of thing—the dogs, you know? They don’t give you the best lessons on romance.”

Carrie laughs, sort of. He blows air out of his nose and he conjures a reply. “I’m sure they gave you a better lesson than my parents ever did.”

“Oh, really, and what lessons did your _human parents_ give you that was so bad?”

“I mean, does it really count as a lesson?” Carrie says, “My parents always talked about marrying me off, introducing me to noblewomen and such. I never really told them about me, or men, or anything. I never wanted to take that from them,” he pauses, “not that they would have been upset, or, I don’t know. My mother, she—I always felt she suspected it. She knew me better than anyone. Better than my father or my brother, at least.” Heavy silence passes over them, and the look on Carrie’s face becomes something very close to pitiable,

(but Alistair doesn’t feel _pity_ for Carrie, he feels something else. Something kinder, maybe.)

and Alistair says, “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

“If there were ever a man more oblivious,” says Carrie, and Alistair chooses to believe he’s talking about his brother. He says, “Yes, I had a brother, and a sister-in-law, and a nephew.”

“Did you like them?”

“I did,” nods Carrie.

Alistair tries, with a touch of humor, “Did _they_ like _you?”_

“Oriana did,” says Carrie, with fondness and mourning in equal measure, “My hair used to be longer. She would braid it, then.”

Alistair imagines Carrie with longer hair—his hair is already a bit shaggy, with certain strands hanging in his face and such. If Alistair reached across the table, he could push them to the side—and it’s sort of a vague image. Alistair tries to imagine Carrie younger, brighter, with long dark hair and his own life and secrets and a family to keep those secrets from, and that, too, is vague.

(And besides, Carrie imagines that for himself far too often.)

They talk for a bit more, and Alistair takes over most of the conversation, unwilling to let it veer into one about Carrie’s family that pushes him to easily incited tears. When Carrie finishes his food, he bids Alistair a good night and returns to his tent, presumably to cry on his own or something.

(Alistair shoos the thought away. He doesn’t want that to be the case.)

In the night, Alistair thinks to himself, Carrie prefers men. It isn’t particularly notable. It is, in fact, perfectly in line with everything he knows about Carrie. And Alistair knows a lot about Carrie by virtue of being his friend. He knows that Carrie is honest, even when he doesn’t have to be. He knows that Carrie can pick locks, and he’s planning on getting the story behind that someday. He knows that Carrie is quick to cry, but aside from that, he knows that Carrie can push through that thick wall of sadness to slay a darkspawn or two when necessary. And now he knows that Carrie prefers men! Which is useful information, because if not for that knowledge, Alistair might get it into his head that Carrie and Leliana were keeping each other’s company.

Alistair stares directly ahead of himself.

Carrie prefers men.


End file.
